


contact linguistics

by marchpanes



Category: Warchild Series - Karin Lowachee
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, POV First Person, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:29:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5464919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchpanes/pseuds/marchpanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>[SHIRI] anyway, listen: there’s another rumor making the rounds, and this one’s actually interesting. </i>
  <br/>
  <i>[RAZRCON] my love life is interesting </i>
  <br/>
  <i>[SHIRI] be serious, Ryan. </i>
  <br/>
  <i>[RAZRCON] I AM </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	contact linguistics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluestalking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestalking/gifts).



> i haven't written anything in ages (first yuletide!) and i've never written ryan before! i hope i did justice to both him and the wonderful prompt. i wrote more than i planned, but if it's kosher i want to eventually write even more. i had a ton of fun.
> 
> thank you so much to [derogatory](http://archiveofourown.org/users/derogatory) for looking this over. any mistakes remaining are my own fault completely!

I’ve been standing at this door for longer than I know why. Every now and then a new recruit turns down the hallway and stops short with a stuttering half-step, probably wondering how bad it’d look if they just turned heel and ran. _Sprigs_ , in Soljet-ese, but that feels taboo and too deliberate; like it’s a language I can know but shouldn’t speak. Plus I’d feel stupid trying to say it. I feel stupid anyway, pretending to scroll through the SendGame so it looks like I’m busy, and not just stuck out here like a stranded puppy.

I could keep it up indefinitely, but one of them says “Sir?” when she sees me, which is a mistake that’d have any of the _actual_ Jets laughing their butts off, and it tilts me off my axis. Her accent sounds Austroan, so I guess to her I’m a celebrity twice over, because even if I read about how I’ve been overthrown as _#1 Vapid Whatever_ , I know they haven’t forgotten me yet.

“Oh… no,” I answer, like I’m telling her she dialed the wrong comm. Very smooth. And there she goes.

Forget it; I’m knocking.

The hatch hisses open almost immediately. Musey looks cranky, which is normal, and oddly grounding. I don’t know why I stalled for so long.

(I haven’t, incidentally. Read about whatever meedee prince took over Austro’s throne. The Sendtertain hasn’t snagged a fresh pic of me on station in two years EHSD. Since then they haven’t even bothered dropping my name beyond reliably worried sidebars on my hair length each time I release a new ‘cast. I’m fine with it.)

(It hasn’t felt like two years, though.)

“Hey.” I don’t bother smiling, because Musey never seems to notice either way. That’s always nice. He can’t figure out why people flock to him, and I’m not gonna explain it any time soon, but it’s because he doesn’t expect a performance.

“Evan’s not here,” he says. He looks pissed, but he always looks that way. If it were anyone else, I would think I’d just dragged him out of bed. Knowing Musey, though-- okay, no, scratch that--  knowing that faint, achey-looking _red_ in his eyes, he was diving.

“I know. I saw him downstairs.” I wave a hand. His eyes flick after it like a cat watching a laser. “ _‘Below deck.’_ The wardroom. He mentioned you kicked him out.” It’s a joke, so I keep going before he can get sour about it. “Can we talk, though?”

His nose wrinkles. I can’t tell what that means. His face is like a language I can’t read-- but written in an alphabet I know. I still don’t know if it’s him or me, or five years of alien immersion, but we never really meet in the middle. His moods feel like words stuck on the tip of my tongue.

Well, no, that’s bullshit-- it’s him. He doesn’t meet anyone in the middle. But he does step back from the hatch. “Fine.”

“Thanks.” I step over the threshold.

The room’s split down the middle where he’s kicked away Evan’s clothes and comics. Musey’s half is carefully, neurotically neat; even the walls are pristine. He doesn’t tape up pics like Dorr and Evan do. But my father keeps his memories in a drawer too, so it’s not like I don’t understand it. Some stuff you don’t want to share with everyone, I guess, and some things you only wanna remember when you choose to.

I pick a path to Evan’s messy, unmade bunk, trying not to step on the scattered t-shirts and pajamas, even though I know he doesn’t mind. I can’t help it. I wasn’t raised that way. Musey probably hates that the whole room stinks of Evan’s cheap cigs, but over on this bed it’s fresh and sharp, familiar in a nice way like a girl’s perfume. It makes want to breathe deep. I do.

“So I was thinking,” I say, once I’m sitting, “that maybe you could teach me to say some things in Striv.” I drop the bomb but he doesn’t answer, just gives me that illegible stare, so I keep going. “I tried looking it up but the only language modules I could find in the archive were those, like, survival phrasebooks they give to soldiers. ‘EarthHub law requires I be treated humanely‘ and ‘you must provide me with a protein-based diet.’ Really stupid stuff. But I thought for my next ‘cast, I could maybe, like, do a short lesson? I know there’s people out there who’d be into it.”

I thought by now he’d have something to say, but he’s just frowning.

“Not, like, anything complicated. Maybe ‘hello, my name is...’? Numbers?” I look at him. “‘Take me to your leader’? You still there, Musey?”

He finally answers, slowly. “Why... would you need to learn Ki’hade?”

I’m a little surprised by that. I was ready to hear how he didn’t have time, or that it’d be too hard for me, but he actually sounds kinda defensive. “ _Ki’hade,_ ” I repeat to myself. “Uh, because it would be cool, I guess. And maybe a nice, like, symbolic gesture. People think it’s thoughtful when you try to learn their language.” I rephrase. “Most… people.”

He sits back at his desk and taps through a few screens without looking at me. “I don’t really see the necessity.”

“What? Come on, why not? Public opinion on the peace talks is important, however much my father acts like the majority of EarthHub doesn’t matter. It’d be _humanizing_.” It takes me a sec to parse the flat look he gives me. “You know what I mean. It’d make the Strivs-- _striviirc-na_ seem relatable. And, like, accessible? Pretty much everyone still just knows them by those cartoon posters on station.” My mouth twists. “The ones where they’re basically vampires.”

I don’t know if my argument’s honestly good, or I’m just good at _sounding_ right, but after a long, stony moment grimacing at his holoscreen like he’s searching for a reason to say no, Musey gives me an answer. “I’ll ask.”

I don’t have to wonder who.

 

\--

 

Captain S’tlian thinks it’s an awesome idea. My words, not Jos’s, because I don’t think he says ‘awesome’ in any language, but just going by how exhausted he sounds? I’m right. I’ve figured out that “defeated resignation” is Musey’s “I don’t want to do this, but it’d make the Warboy happy” mode. Which I kind of get, kind of don’t. Especially lately. Together, we practically make one whole good son.

So I’m back a few days later, sitting cross-legged on the room’s dividing line, Musey facing me in his chair with a slate in his hand. Evan’s sprawled the wrong way across his bed, bouncing a ball of tin foil off the ceiling. Judging by the way he mouths along with my attempts, he’s half listening.

“En,” I say. For the billionth time.

Musey shakes his head with the zombie-slow patience of someone forcing an out of body experience so they don’t give in and snap somebody’s neck. I wasn’t there when he talked to Captain S’tlian, and it’s not like I have a bead on the Warboy’s moods, but-- call it a sixth sense, things feel tenser than usual. And in year two of war-ending peace talks? That’s saying something.

“ _Enh_ ,” he repeats, toneless and clear. There’s breathy ending in the back of his throat that I can hear but can’t duplicate.

“ _Ennn_ ,” says Evan. “Why’s that mean ‘yes’? It’s confusing.”

“Because it does,” Jos answers, clipped, and pokes something into his slate harder than necessary. I wonder if he’s ever tried to teach Evan before. I dunno if that’s something they want to share.

“Well, what’s ‘no’?”

“ _Wey_.”

“ _Wayyy_.” Evan overshoots, bouncing the ball off the wall to the floor, then holds out his hand and wiggles his fingers for me to give it back. I toss it up to him, smiling into my palm so he can see it. He grins back, lopsided, and winks.

“Tell me how to say my name again,” I say, loudly, turning back to the middle of the room. It’s a brute force subject change, but I’d rather Jos didn’t strangle him right in front of me. Musey’s serious enough for the whole ship, so I don’t even know if he can even tell when Evan’s being dumb just to get him riled up. Maybe he just thinks Evan _is_ stupid. Either way, it makes him madder than I want to deal with now. “ _Oh nagali…?”_

_“Oa ngali Ryan Azarcon.”_

 

\--

 

I focus on the nasal sound, repeating it under my breath. “ _Oa ngali Ryan Azarcon.”_ It feels like I’m flexing a tongue muscle I’ve never used before. Every couple repetitions I lose track of it and mess up. “ _Wan-gali-- wwwangali. Oh-an-ga-lee._ Okay, cut all that.”

I’m in my own room now, alone except the lens of my cam and the red light I’m talking to. It gives me about as much encouragement as Musey did, but at least I’m not embarrassing myself.

“ _Oa ngali Ryan--”_

A flashing overlay pops up on my screen. The little icon in the corner tells it’s Shiri. I touch an icon to stop the recording, and then another to fill the display with her face.

“Hey,” I say. “Wow, you look nova.” I can see the top of a fancy-looking dress, and her hair’s swept up into a pretty bun that reminds me for a brutal second of my mom. I shake it off. “Are you at a party?”

She frowns, exaggeratedly unimpressed. “‘Nova,’ Ryan? Really? What kind of language are they teaching you up there? You’re ruined.”

“ _Ha-ha_. Consider it educational.”

“For a given value of ‘education.’ Anyway, no, but I’m _going_ to a party-- Paulita got invited to some documentary launch and I’m her plus one, and _no_ , I’m not going to explain, so don’t ask.” She cuts off anything dirty I might’ve been thinking to say, so I just make a show of sticking my chin on my fist and raising my eyebrows. “Ugh, Ryan, don’t make me regret comming you. I have a few minutes, so I just wanted to say hi... _and_ let you know the latest segment of our interview went live today.” She’s always had a flair for weighing her words to wring maximum impact. Professors _loved_ her for it. I just sweet talk cameras; Shiri subjugates them.

“Oh. How’s it landing?” I see myself blink slowly in the picture-in-picture. My clenched hand is out of frame.

She can read me like a book. At least she’s tactful about it, even if it’s plain on her face. “Pretty well. We’ve lost some viewers, obviously, since _nothing_ will hold all of EarthHub’s interest through to the fifth installment, not even the _wondrously handsome_ Ryan Azarcon--”

I mock offense. “Excuse me, _madam_ , but I’ve recently made a whole new name for myself. I’d now like to be referred to as _the incredibly magnanimous and well-spoken_ Ryan Azarcon.”

Deep space static flickers across her flat expression. “Ryan, last time we comm’d I watched a chip fall out of your mouth and back into the bag.”

“Okay, you said that was off the record.”

“ _Moving on_ ,” she says, brushing a strand of loose black hair from her face, “the people who _are_ watching? They’re interested. It’s not breaking, obviously, but we should see some cool editorials over the next news cycle. Plus I’ll bring it up a lot at the party tonight. One way or another, they’ll be talking about you. Oh, speaking of which, how’s setup going for the relief fund? They’ll want to know if there’s been any progress.”

She’s talking about my baby NGO. That’s what all of this is about, really; my casts, the interviews, everything I’ve worked on for the past year. I meant what I said-- EarthHub needs to realize what a pirate actually is. What my father’s fighting, and that the majority of the striviirc-na are on the same side. Instation imagines them cartoony as those propaganda aliens, except the pirates are toothless where the strivs are all fangs. That’s deliberate, I know now; to placate merchant vessels and laser-sight public support onto the war.

That’s what I said in my first interview with Shiri. It’s what got us an exclusive series under Paulita Valencia, and what made me finally impulse register for a non-profit license in the middle of my next blueshift. My father’s funneled money and resources to NGOs for ages-- mostly ones trying to help orphans, either from the war or its profiteers-- but that’s all been under the table. I want to make it official, basically. And public. Clean. _Accessible._ And now I have the money to make it happen.

Nothing else to spend it on, anyway.

My father thinks “image” is a bullshit idea. Pretty much anyone you ask on this ship will back him up. But I want to help _somehow_ \-- with the peace talks, with the colonies of refugees stranded out on the spokes. I have to do something. So bullshit, maybe, but image is what I know-- and I know it’s not as pointless as he thinks. I doubt Mom ever picked up anything much scarier than a kitchen knife-- if even-- but she taught me to hold the public’s gaze like a glinting blade. Underestimation doesn’t make your weapon any duller.

So the NGO was a calculated reveal. I thought it was too early to announce, but Shiri said it’d be good to raise hype before it launches. It’s barely off the ground, but she’s helped a lot, sniffing out potential investors on Earth and Mars. Her neck of the woods.

“Good. Bad. I don’t know.” I slump back in my chair. “I’m still trying to transfer the inheritance off Austro. Did you know _offshore accounting_ is a lot harder when you’re on an outlawed ship in deep space?”

That makes her laugh. “Word of advice? Next time we’re on camera, don’t say you’re funding your nonprofit with ‘offshore accounting.’”

I smile back, and feel the tension ungrip my chest a little. “Thanks, Shiri. I owe you.”

“Yeah, you _do.”_ She raises an eyebrow. “When are we getting one of those protégés on camera for an interview, Ryan?”

“Ugh.” I rub my eyes. “Can we not talk about this? Don’t you have a party to get to?”

I know she wouldn’t normally drop it, but her gaze slides off-lens for a second. “You’re lucky I don’t have time to kick your ass, Azarcon. We’re talking about this next time I comm.”

“ _Definitely_. Toodles, Shiri. Give your boss a kiss from me.”

“Pig.” She’s too classy to flip me off, but she does hang up without saying goodbye. I win.

It’s my own fault she keeps asking. EarthHub already knows my father’s history-- well, they know what he let them know, and I’ve made it clear I won’t be sharing more. But _Shiri_ knows about the other protégés on board, and honestly, she wouldn’t be a journalist worth her salt if she didn’t hound me for more details. I told her I’d ask. Half to get her off my back, but also… I dunno. Because it’d help, I think. To make it all more real to people. _Accessible_ , like I’d said to Musey. But it’s a mean thing ask for, and not a deal I can try empty-handed. So, not yet. Maybe not ever.

I spend the next hour running manual data sweeps of every Spokes census I can find. I only tear myself away from my comp when I feel a vibration from somewhere across _Macedon_ shiver up through the legs of my desk, and then looking at the bulkhead feels like _needles_ in my eyes.

“Fuck,” I mutter, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyelids. I should’ve taken breaks. _Don’t overdo it_ , I hear in my father’s warning voice. Like I have a choice. I could’ve burndived for this info ten times faster, and now I can’t even get it front-end without hurting myself.

There’s a message blinking in the corner of my screen, timestamped twenty minutes ago. I don’t even remember seeing the notification. I tap the little smiley face icon and blink blearily at the words.

 _[SHIRI] didn’t even have to bring it up. they were talking about you already._  
_[SHIRI] ps get some sleep. you looked really bad xoxo_

She’s probably right. She almost always is. There’s no chance I’m finishing that vid tonight, then, but that’s probably a good thing. _Oa ngali_ _Tired As Hell_.

Another faint rumble. There’s no siren to indicate the ship’s under attack and we’re all about to die, but there’s also no all-clear. I’m just about to comm Sid asking if I should be putting my tray table in the upright & locked position when the XO’s voice clicks on over the PA.

“Fifteen minutes to decoupling, folks. Fifteen minutes. Better choose a ship and get the hell off the gangway.”

 

\--

 

I find Musey alone staring out the big window on the landing deck, arms stiff at his sides. For the first time in weeks, the gigantic metal hatchway where _Macedon_ ’s been mated to _Turundr’lar_ is sealed shut. I walk up to him, and follow his gaze out to empty space.

“They jumped?” I don’t ask the obvious question; his body language already answers. Captain S’tlian left him here. “That wasn’t scheduled, right? Did something happen?” The air here still smells like that sour, grassy tea.

Musey’s fingers flex. For a second I think he won’t answer me. When he does, he sounds so calm I almost don’t hear the faint despair of resigned isolation. “His mother died. Someone killed her.”

My stomach lurches. We stare out at the pinpricks of unreachable, cold light, and don’t say anything else.

 

\--

 

I’m still staring at the ceiling in my bed when there’s a metallic knock on the door of my q.

“Lights, 70,” I murmur, rolling sideways. I rub at my eyes. They feel gritty. I know I’m tired, but I don’t feel it anymore.

My back cracks when I stand. I yank open the hatch and squint out at the brighter light of the hall. “Evan?”

He holds up a sixpack. “Hey. Lemme in?”

Jos kicked him out again, he tells me. Or seemed like he’d rather be alone. I’m too fuzzy to work out the implication. I don’t usually have to, with Evan; he tells me what I need to know. Usually more. I wonder if he found me on purpose, or if I’m just a place to go.

He makes himself comfortable on the floor, cracks us both a beer and for a while we just drink. I sit on the edge of my bed and look at the wall, reminding myself to blink, and finally I glance down at him.

Evan’s pretty. Like, hard-punch-to-the-stomach pretty, even though he looks torn around the edges. His fingernails are bitten short, picking at the cheap blue paper glued across his beer bottle. His face always gives off the vague impression that he’s just healed from getting the shit kicked out of him, and his mouth looks always kind of bitten but also really, really soft.

I realize he’s looking back at me, calm and thoughtful. Watching me stare at his mouth. He takes a slow, deliberate drink from his bottle. I clear my throat, and because my own mouth has gone completely dry, I copy him.

We drain the bottles, and he releases my gaze to grab two more. On impulse, I lean forward and type change to my recording screen.

“Hey,” I say, and it sounds a little too loud. “Do you remember any of that Ki’hade Jos taught us?”

Evan looks plainly up at me. His gaze slides over to the webcam, then flicks down to the screen, where he’s in frame. I slide down next to him on the floor. He looks back at me, and hands me my beer. I’ve knocked him off course. “Maybe,” he says, a little curious. A little amused at how dumb I am.

I take a long drink. Then, like an idiot, I sling an arm over his shoulder and press my cheek to his hair, like we’re taking a cheesy photo. “Good. Then you can be my guest star. I wanna get this vid posted tonight.” I feel him go stiff with surprise. “So… smile for the camera, Mr. D’Silva.”

It doesn’t take him long to relax. Neither of us remembers the word for ‘no,’ but even tipsy we slip into an absurd but intelligible-- and pretty hilarious-- back and forth conversation of “ _Oa ngali Ryan Azarcon.” / “En, en!”_  

He’s as photogenic as I am. This is going to be a popular vid, even if it’s stupid as hell; it felt good to make, and we’re both cute.

I don’t realize until I’m almost done editing, Evan asleep behind me on the end of my bed, that I spent the whole recording with my arm around his shoulder.

 

\--

 

 _ **[SHIRI]** hello to earthhub’s most popular polyglot. you should hear the office today. _  
_**[SHIRI]** I finally learned the intern’s name! _  
_**[SHIRI]** this was a good move, Ryan. _  
_**[SHIRI]** though you realize the Sendtertain is blowing up over that boy, right? _  
_**[RAZRCON]** wait what are they saying _  
_**[SHIRI]** what do you think? _

 OK, maybe I didn’t know exactly what I was doing last night. I drop my comm face down and shove my face back into my pillow. Evan’s not here; just six empty beer bottles in a huddle by the desk. I guess I should be glad, because him sneaking out of my q at the crack of dayshift would just make things look worse. But I’m not. He could’ve stayed.

I remember his mouth around the beer bottle, the bare dusting of angel-blond hair on his stomach when he stretched, and groan unhappily into the bed. I really, really, really need a girlfriend.

_WANTED ASAP: any woman on this ship that won’t tear my head off like a praying mantis immediately after sex. OBO._

My phone keeps buzzing on and off, so I flip it face up again and read the messages with my chin on my arm. 

 _ **[SHIRI]** no response?? _  
_**[SHIRI]** so quiet i can almost hear the wedding bells _  
_**[SHIRI]** just don’t be stupid, Ryan, you know how these things look _  
_**[RAZRCON]** you mean how they make them look _  
_**[SHIRI]** there’s no difference, you’re just being petulant _

 It’s really irritating when she’s right. Even worse when she’s _responsible_ and changes the subject before I can type a decent comeback.

 _ **[SHIRI]** anyway, listen: there’s another rumor making the rounds, and this one’s actually interesting. _  
_**[RAZRCON]** my love life is interesting _  
_**[SHIRI]** be serious, Ryan. _  
_**[RAZRCON]** I AM _  
_**[SHIRI]** if there’s any truth to it, you’ll hear more before i do _  
_**[RAZRCON]** details? _  
_**[SHIRI]** i could, Ryan, but i really don’t have any more time for you. _  
_**[SHIRI]** drunkard. _  
_**[RAZRCON]** harsh _  
_**[SHIRI]** just comm me if you hear anything. and remember we’re exclusive :-) _

 She means “don’t even think about giving other interviews,” but I’m pretty sure today I’ll just find 12 messages about my mystery blond jet-pirate.

I want to go back to sleep. Instead I sit up, stretch, and shoot off a quick text to Evan.

 _ **[RAZRCON]** so earthhub might think we’re a thing now _  
_**[RAZRCON]** whoops _  
_**[RAZRCON]** sorry in advance if anyone bothers you about it _  
_**[RAZRCON]** just ignore them _

I’m not _worried_. Just… covering my bases. He responds almost immediately.

 _ **[ED32]** too late, somoene commd me already ;-P i told them were getitng married and youre a cheap d8 _  
_**[ED32]** thats what u get for touching my hair like that _  
_**[ED32]** on camera lol _  
_**[ED32]** hang again tonite? _

I remember, suddenly, how Erret Dorr looked at me like I was an idiot for thinking I could handle myself the first time Evan got me alone. I might resent Musey for thinking he’s dumb, but am I any better? Evan’s trick is getting you to write him off.

My thumbs are still hovering stupidly above the keypad when the tags hooked across the back of my chair beep an incoming comm. I snatch them up and smush my thumb into the transmit button.

“Get up here, please, Ryan. I’m making breakfast and we need to talk.”

 

\--

 

Sid’s already standing outside my father’s q. It’s half a relief, half not; he’ll keep me braced, but it also makes me wonder why he’ll _need_ to. God, I’m getting as ruthless as Musey; forget that. I’m happy to see him.

“Hey,” I say. He looks up from his tags when he hears me and his smile feels like coming in for hot cocoa back on Earth.

“Hey yourself.” He ruffles my hair, then combs it back into place with his fingers while I thumb the button on the wall. It stays red for half a second, then buzzes green.

“Thanks for waiting for me,” I say, sarcastic, shouldering him away and running my own fingers through my hair. He always tries to part it in the middle, and he’s not sneaky.

He grins and puts a hand behind my shoulder instead, guiding me in through the hatch.

I smell sausage. My mouth waters. My father’s still in an apron, which is a sight I’ve barely gotten used to. Not for the first time, I think how much cred Shiri could flip a pic like _this_ for.

He doesn’t talk shop until Sid and I both have our mouths full of biscuits and gravy. “I received a comm this morning from the Admiral.” My grandfather? I chew slowly and watch him wipe his fingers on a dishrag. “He informed me that you’ve been named a Goodwill Ambassador to HubCentral.”

I choke on my toast. Sid pounds his fist helpfully into my back while I gulp down half a glass of orange juice. “Sir?” He says, since I can’t speak.

My father barely glances at him. “They’d like you to make a speech before the Joint Chiefs of Staff.” He sips his own glass, still staring at me. “I’m told that traditionally the speech is given in person. As that’s not an option for you, the Admiral has arranged for a telecast.”

I can finally breathe, but in the meantime I’ve forgotten how to speak.

 

\--

 

I’m pouring over three decades of deep space shipping manifestos so I don’t have to think about anything else. I messaged Evan when I left my father’s q, asking for a raincheck and apologizing; he just said _“lol. any time”_

Numbers. Cargo lists. I need data, tragedy, things that I can _help_ to shove all this _other_ stuff out of my head. My eyes ache, but not enough to muffle out the deeper itch of needing to go blank and weightless.

I’m just about to cash in that raincheck early when the comm buzzes in my hands.

 _ **[E4_SIDNEY]** Hey buddy. Crazy stuff, huh? _  
_**[RAZRCON]** yeah. no kidding _  
_**[E4_SIDNEY]** So what’re you thinking? _  
_**[RAZRCON]** about what im going to say, i guess _  
_**[E4_SIDNEY]** Not what I meant. You can always say no, Ryan. _  
_**[RAZRCON]** lmao _  
_**[RAZRCON]** and where have i not heard that before? _

It’s a low blow, even if it is true. Mom never let me beg out of a cast just because I didn’t feel like it, and those were just for the good of the family image. This is for _literal galactic peace_. I feel guilty anyway. 

 _ **[RAZRCON]** sorry. _  
_**[E4_SIDNEY]** It’s okay. You’re probably right. She’d want you to do it. _

My heart hurts, in that scary way where all the stuff I have balanced under the surface feels close to breaking tension and boiling over.

 _ **[RAZRCON]** i just wish i could do it on earth you know _  
_**[RAZRCON]** like actually land and be there _  
_**[RAZRCON]** i miss it _

I miss solid ground. I miss the smells, and the food, and the open sky. I miss sunlight and weather and camping in the mountains with Sid. I miss loud parties and shopping and people everywhere that I don’t already know. I miss Shiri. She’s not even there anymore. 

 _ **[E4_SIDNEY]** Absolutely not. Are you kidding me? Even a telecast is pushing it. _  
_**[E4_SIDNEY]** The Admiral can barely keep you safe out here in striv space, Ryan _  
_**[E4_SIDNEY]** We’re not going to drop you off for a speech just so Damiani or Black Ops or Captain Hook can scoop you up like a field mouse _  
_**[RAZRCON]** yeah, im aware. _  
_**[RAZRCON]** it was just a daydream _  
_**[RAZRCON]** but thanks for the psa. i’ll make sure to stop having feelings asap _  
_**[RAZRCON]** or at least telling you about them. _  
_**[E4_SIDNEY]** Ryan _

  
I switch my comm off.

 

\--

 

I don’t know where my feet are taking me until I get there. Evan’s sitting on his heels outside the mess, poking idly at his slate, and I realize now that he’s what I was looking for. He brightens when he sees me, which makes me feel warm and already a little less strung.

“Hey,” I say, leaning on the wall next to him. I sound more relieved than I feel, but I don’t really mind him hearing. “Loitering?”

He tries to rub a stray hair off his cheek with his shoulder, then his palm.  He grins at me. “Nah. Got kicked out ‘cause breakfast ended. S’like another half hour till lunch, so if you’re hungry you’re gonna have to wait with me.” It’s not what I want, but for a second it kind of is. I shake my head anyway.

“Can we just talk for a little?”

“Yeah,” he says immediately, and sticks his hand out for me to help him up. “That’s cool.”

He knows what I mean when I ask that, or he can read my mood today. Both, probably. We sit together in the low-light maintenance stairwell and don’t say anything at all. I spilled it all to Sid already; Evan and I find each other when we’re done with words. I guess that’s kind of a language we have too.

I smell his cigs even before he pulls one out; herbal sweet, warm, comforting like an old bad habit. He has me light it because his fingerband broke a week ago and he keeps forgetting to requisition a new one. I don’t mind. I take the first drag as my payment, mostly because I know he thinks that’s funny, and he bites his lip when he half-laughs, and for some reason I think I really like that.

I hand it carefully back, and our fingers touch.

I watch him smoke, our backs to either wall, my knees to my chest and his legs stretched out next to me. He watches me watch him. Everyone on this ship is so goddamn vigilant. I get why he has to be, though. Out of all of them, he’s got some of the best reasons. And he’s probably the only one-- of all of them-- who doesn’t always make me feel chased, or like a child, or caught on camera.

The hair from his cheek is on his shoulder now, clinging like a little thread of pale honey-gold to the thin, pilled fabric of his sleeve. He leans closer when I reach for it. Neither of us says a word, and he just looks at me, calm and level, like he’s waiting. I don’t know what for until I realize I haven’t let go. So he doesn’t look even a little surprised when I wrap my fingers around his shoulder and tug on him instead.

He moves like he knows what I want better than I do, folds his knees gracefully and tilts forward to settle between mine. I hesitate, and he lets me, because I know how to do this, I’m good at this, but suddenly it feels so disorientingly different from doing it with a girl. Like I know the song, but I’m stuck dancing just a beat behind the music. Or maybe that’s just how it feels with _him_. Either way, I can’t stop; just gotta wait and hope my rhythm clicks back where it belongs.

In the meantime his eyes make me feel like those Earth animals that walk straight onto traffic and wait for death. Maybe it’s obvious how clueless I am right now, or maybe he picks it up from the way I curl my fingers into his sleeve, because something shifts in his demeanor and he leans forward without saying anything to finally press a kiss to my cheek.

It’s too soft and lingering to be chaste, and it catches my breath in my throat. He lifts his hands to my head, pushes his fingers through my hair and holds me to the bulkhead while he kisses me again, lower, and then another at the edge of my jaw. His nose nuzzles into my cheek. He stays right there, in a spot he likes, maybe, and the next time thing I feel is his open mouth, hot and wet and sudden. That makes my lungs find air again, and my fingers squeeze on his shoulders. I push him back with the heels of my palms.

He looks at me, eyes a little glassy but sharp-focused, lips pink and slightly parted, and I remember how the music goes.

I kiss him, and he left the cig burning down on the railing but its taste is in his mouth too, he tastes like smoke and the smoke tastes even nicer than it smells. He kisses me. I make a noise into his mouth, the kind I would’ve swallowed down if it were-- someone else. _He_ swallows it, instead, mouth open and eager, his tongue sliding messily against my own.

He pulls back to let me breathe, one hand sliding down to cradle my jaw while he sucks on my lip, and I feel the dull edge of his broken tooth. I shiver, and his other hand slides lower.

I still feel like I’m leading, somehow. I don’t know if that’s what I want, but he seems to. He’s not going slow, but he’s going steady, and I feel an ancient evolutionary prickle at the full force of his attention. It’s like he’s watching me for feedback I’m not even aware I’m radiating; calmly reading some language I don’t know, but apparently I’m written in. I curve my back when his fingers skirt under my shirt, pushing up into his touch. He breathes out hard when I do that, the first sound I’ve heard him make. His palm is smaller than mine, roughly calloused, and warm where he presses it flat to my stomach. I get goosebumps anyway. He runs his thumb across my skin like he’s curious, falters, then lets his touch stray over my hip, my waist, up across the barely-there muscles I’m stupidly proud of.

He touches like he’s not sure he’s allowed. I realize that through the haze. I’m picking up the language on the fly. He hesitates like he’s not used to the luxury of what’s more than necessary. It makes my heart hurt. So I let my head fall back against the wall and don’t close my teeth on the little whine I make when his fingertips brush over my chest.

There’s a flush across his face I’ve never seen before. It makes his freckles darker and his skin seems even paler, and with his mouth bitten-red and parted he looks obscenely good. He looks _fuckable_ , I think, and I feel heat crawl down my own neck. I wonder if I do too.

Evan leans forward and presses another kiss into my throat. My fingers curl on the back of his neck. I want to keep watching his face, but then he sucks my skin between his teeth and presses his hand into the front of my jeans and I don’t remember wanting _anything_.

“ _God_ , Evan.” My fingers twist in his hair, until I worry that I’m hurting him and make myself relax. I push my hips into his palm; he squeezes through the fabric, and I shut my eyes. I think I’d be embarrassed normally that I was this hard before he even touched me. Maybe I don’t have the mental capacity for embarrassment right now. Or maybe it’s that we’re in a staircase on a ship with six thousand strangers and we didn’t block the door and it’s kind of only now that I’m realizing what privacy feels like.

I bend at the waist, let my forehead fall onto his shoulder and make desperate, shameless noises into his shirt. He gives me room, rests his cheek against my hair, and rolls his palm between my legs with a smooth rhythm that I fall into, keening upwards with my hips to meet the pressure. His breath is hot and damp on my neck, and I realize by the way he’s rocking on his heels that _he’s_ getting off on this too. I didn’t really earn it, but that still gives me a little thrill of pride, and everything’s too loud and bright for language, but in my mind I picture all the ways it _could_ be earned

And that’s what does it for me. I come hard in my jeans, pressed into Evan D’Silva’s hand, at the mental image of his hand in my hair and my mouth on his dick, looking at me like he’s looking at me right now.

No half measures with us Azarcons, I guess. Go hard or go home, and we’re fresh out of homes to go to.

 

\--

 

He leaves me in the stairwell with a cig while he goes and grabs another pair of pants. There’s words, probably, for how mortifying this should be. But for now I’m cool just sitting, smelling unlit cheap tobacco, not worrying too much what I don’t know how to say.


End file.
